


Duress

by Mousedm



Category: Diagnosis Murder
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 22:03:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12094389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mousedm/pseuds/Mousedm
Summary: How far will Mark go to save his son?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: "Diagnosis Murder" and the characters in it are owned by CBS and Viacom and are merely being borrowed here for recreational, non-profit purposes.
> 
> Previously posted on Fanfic.net but they messed up my formatting!

Chapter 1

“Hi, Dad, I’m home!” Steve called out as he took the steps two at a time, sniffing the air appreciatively as he approached the kitchen, anticipating the tasty meal that obviously awaited. Although he might receive some good-natured flack from some of his colleagues for still living with his father, there were definite benefits to the arrangement, and to anyone who rode him hard, he would expound at length as to the joys of ocean-front living which few working in the LAPD could afford. However, the truth was, he enjoyed his father’s companionship, and on nights like this, after a long, tedious and ultimately fruitless stakeout, it was infinitely preferable to return home to the aromatic warmth of the Beach House, than to a cold and sterile apartment.

There was a pile of mail addressed to him on the table, and he leafed through it rapidly, but the various credit card applications and assorted junk mail that appeared to comprise the totality of the stack held little interest and he soon dropped them back again. A quick peek in the oven revealed a stew pot and allowed another wave of savoury fragrance to flood his nostrils. There was only one thing missing from this scene of domestic tranquility.

“Dad?” he called again, this time pausing to listen for an answering hail, but there was no response and, for no apparent reason, that deficiency caused a frisson of unease to raise goosebumps along Steve’s arms. He tried to dismiss the sensation. There could be an easy explanation for Mark’s absence -- he might be outside or have been called in to work. Without moving from the spot, Steve visually scoured the kitchen for a note that he might have missed, but there was nothing in his immediate line of sight.

“Dad,” he shouted once more, attempting to keep his tone light and unconcerned, but the words echoed into a silence that was laden with expectancy, and instincts that had kept him alive in a career fraught with danger insisted that the safety of his home had been violated by an unknown presence. He wasn’t alone in the house.

There was nothing concrete to support this hunch, but his hand moved to the reassuring solidity of his gun, automatically testing it for ease of access, although he couldn’t bring himself to draw it. Once before, he’d searched his house with gun upraised, anticipating trouble, and had ended up with the muzzle pointing directly at his father. Even the memory of that experience and its possible consequences had the ability to create a curl of nausea that writhed low in his belly, and he wouldn’t risk a possible repetition of the incident.

A noiseless step took him to the doorway, and he focused his attention outward, hoping for a clue to help determine his next move. His first concern was for his father. If this were a robbery or some perp seeking revenge, Mark could be lying elsewhere in the house, injured. That image was enough to propel Steve down the corridor, although he didn't allow the sense of urgency to override stealth. 

This had been his home since childhood, and he was familiar with every creaking board, every place of concealment, as only a boy who’d played endless games of hide and seek, and a teenager who’d tried to slink in silently after curfew, could know a house.

As he slipped soundlessly into his father’s bedroom, his eyes raked his surroundings for any evidence of movement, and his ears strained to pick up the slightest whisper of activity, but the still, thunderous silence surrounding him was heavy; he could feel it pressing down on him, he could even smell it. 

Smell! That was the alien element that had alerted him, worrying at his subconscious, eddying around almost imperceptibly. Now he was removed from the gastronomical distractions of the kitchen, he could isolate the metallic tang of gun oil which stung his tastebuds, a familiar scent redolent of violence. He tilted his head like a wolf scenting something on the wind, tracking the source of the effluence back towards Mark’s study. 

He finally drew his gun, holding it pointing out and down, and started edging down the hall, struggling to control his breathing which was trying to force its way laboriously out of his lungs. A tight knot of fear expanded in the pit of his stomach. Tension was a natural reaction to a potential shootout, but the knowledge that his father was almost certainly in that room and would be in the thick of any fighting terrified him. He could feel his mouth drying out as cold tendrils of fear invaded his chest and wrapped around his heart, squeezing painfully.

He reached the door without incident and in silence, although it felt like the resounding of his heart as it drilled against his ribs, would inevitably betray him to any listener in the vicinity. His shoulder blades braced firmly against the wall besides the doorway, he allowed his head to rest backwards for a few seconds, desperately trying to determine the best strategy. He wished he’d had more faith in his own instincts earlier and had called for backup, but now it was too late. He also wished that he had some idea of what awaited him inside the room. Charging in with no knowledge of the number of assailants or the type of weaponry he would be facing was a sure way of getting his father killed. Yet the prolonged stillness from within suggested that Mark was hurt, or at the very least restrained, so caution was hard won.

For Mark’s sake, he had to stifle the filial impulses that demanded immediate action. The occupants of the room must be wondering what had happened to him since he last called out and, with any luck, would venture out to discover his whereabouts. That brief element of surprise would be his only advantage. He remained motionless for several minutes, apart from twice pressing damp palms on his pants’ leg, and his patience was eventually rewarded. A dry creak, probably from a leather belt, reached his ears and the repetition of the sound drawing closer warned him of an impending appearance.

Slowly, the barrel of a gun emerged through the door, closely followed by a hand. That was all Steve needed. Swiftly tucking his own weapon into his belt, he latched onto the wrist and with a deft pull and a twist, followed by a savage downward blow, which in a more rational moment he would admit was considerably harder than necessary, he felled his opponent. 

Rearming himself, he was about to enter, knowing that the instant he was framed in the doorway was the most dangerous, when he was forestalled by a voice, emanating urbanely from the study.

“Lieutenant Sloan, please come and join us. Your father has been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”

The threat in the words was implicit, and clearly nothing could be gained by delay, so Steve moved smoothly into the room, gun upraised. His heart lurched within at the sight that greeted him, and at the realisation that he’d miscalculated badly. Besides Mark, there were four men inside, all armed -- impossible odds, although he might have contemplated a last-ditch shoot out if it hadn’t been for the fact that three out of four of the aforementioned weapons were aimed not at himself but at his father, reflecting a subtle grasp of psychology that was beyond the typical thug.

With the prospect of immediate action thwarted, Steve ignored the intruders in favour of reassuring himself as to his father’s condition. To his relief, Mark seemed unhurt, although his hands were bound behind him, and there was a thick, gray strip of masking tape across his mouth. Above that, his blue eyes blazed with frustration and a fear that Steve recognised was entirely on his son’s account. An almost infinitesimal shake of his head, coupled with the urgency of expression, conveyed a warning with which Steve was unable to comply.

He longed to move across the room to untie Mark, needing to be closer to protect him from the weaponry still targeting him, but the few yards that separated them were the equivalent of a galaxy away and he dare not relax his posture of vigilance against the doorway. A red haze of fury scalded his vision at this invasion of his home and the threat to his father, but he attempted to keep his expression impassive and not allow the weakness of anger to show. Without appearing too interested, he scanned the faces of the intruders, recognising two of them as low-level enforcers for one of the Mob families. 

The focus of his scrutiny, however, was on the fourth man who stood behind his father’s chair, his gun resting lightly on Mark’s shoulder. He was large, with the bulk that comes more from good eating than exercise, and with a genial appearance, yet Steve knew that the benign veneer was deceptive. Brad Hicks was a ruthless killer with an extensive education that made him even more dangerous than the average gangster. 

“Lieutenant Sloan, I must ask you to relinquish your weapon. It’s making my men nervous, and twitchy fingers could result in an accident to your father that we’d all like to avoid.”

Steve made no move to lower his gun. “But if I relinquished my weapon, I wouldn’t be able to prevent any of those accidents,” he responded equably.

Hicks smiled benevolently. “I can assure you, we mean no harm to your father. We are here merely to discuss his testimony at the trial tomorrow.”

The trial? Steve wasn’t sure what connection the Mob had to the Oliver murder investigation, but it almost certainly boded ill for his father.

“Isn’t it rather hard to have a discussion when one of the participants is gagged,” Steve pointed out reasonably.

“Without some kind of restraint, your father would have warned you, and we did want you present.”

“Consider me warned now,” Steve countered dryly.

Hicks ignored the hint, his casual bonhomie sloughing away like the dead skin off a snake, revealing the true reptilian nature inside.

“I really must insist you drop your gun.” He trained his own gun meaningfully at Mark’s shoulder, a shot that would debilitate but not kill, and Steve had no doubts that non-compliance on his part would result in injury to his father. Impotent anger wrangled with despair. To protect Mark now, he had to give up the means to protect him later, and he still had no idea as to the intentions of the Mob.

For an instant, he was tempted to embrace the emotions seething inside, to use the adrenaline of fury to take out as many of the enemy as possible before they killed him. But he couldn’t risk it with Mark in the line of fire. He met his father’s eyes again, trying to convey both apology and confidence in that one glance despite the hollow twisting ache in his gut. In a strange moment of privacy in the midst of hostile stares, he saw reflected back the depth of love his father held for him but so rarely demonstrated, and hard on its heels was another attempt at warning as Mark again shook his head minutely. Steve wasn’t sure if it was in response to the command to disarm, or if his father had somehow sensed his impulse to attack and was urging restraint. Either way, he had little choice.

Hicks cleared his throat meaningfully. “Last chance, Lieutenant.”

His murky, oily brown eyes held the certainty of triumph, and Steve acknowledged surrender, releasing his grip on the handle of his gun, allowing it to dangle from his forefinger by the trigger guard. Hicks signaled two of his men to move in, and they relieved him of the gun then, wrenching both his arms behind his back and handcuffing him, patted him down for potential weapons.

Steve bore the indignities unemotionally but held Hicks’ gaze with a forceful stare, charging the atmosphere between them with corrosive perception.

“Hurt my father and I’ll kill you,” he told the mobster softly, the words all the more convincing for the arctic quietness with which they were spoken, a personal promise that would defy their superior numbers and firepower if necessary.

Hicks emerged from behind Mark and, for the first time, there were no guns aimed at the doctor, allowing Steve to relax marginally. 

“We have no intention of hurting your father.” His affable smile was back in place. “However, we have a vested interest in the outcome of the Oliver trial, and his testimony is vital to its resolution.” 

Although no fear showed in Mark’s expression, Steve could feel tension roiling from his father in near physical waves, crashing into him with a force that rocked him back a step, and he suddenly understood his own role in the equation.

“And I’m your insurance.” He kept his voice level and uninflected, not betraying his disgust at being used as a pawn to guarantee his father’s compliance. Wanting to relieve the intensity of concern darkening Mark’s eyes, he tried to communicate an unspoken reassurance, but even as he caught his father’s gaze, Mark’s eyes widened in sudden shock and horror, and Steve reacted instinctively to the implicit warning by ducking his head and hunching away from the anticipated blow. With his hands tied behind him, he was unable to block it completely, but caught it solidly on his shoulder. Ignoring the flair of pain, he lashed out with a foot, catching the thug on the left side of the knee, causing him to collapse with a cry of agony.

He realised that there was little chance of overwhelming all his opponents, but fought with a desperation that refused to admit futility, knowing a dead bargaining chip was worthless to them so it was worth the attempt. He moved forward, wanting to be in a position to shield his father should their attackers decided to cut their losses. He successfully evaded the next punch, kneeing the enforcer in the groin, but it was destined to be the last blow he landed. Hicks stepped back to where Mark was struggling against the gunman holding him down in the chair and unhurriedly placed his gun back against the doctor’s head, stopping Steve in his tracks. In that instant of hesitation, he was caught by a vicious jab to the kidneys and something slammed into him above the right eye. His vision dissolved in an explosion of vermilion which faded like fireworks extinguished in the cold night sky as he rocked back on crumpling legs to crash inert on the ground, unable to break his fall with bound hands. As the first steel-toed boot thudded into his ribs, he wished with all the fervency his rapidly-fading consciousness could summon that his father would not be forced to witness the results of his failure.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Mark was oblivious to the threat of the cold muzzle pressed against his temple, transfixed by the horror of the scene unfolding before him, the sight tearing the breath from his chest. As a doctor, he knew only too well the damage that could be inflicted on frail bone and flesh. He had even seen the aftermath of a beating on his son before -- the livid bruises and skin split by the cruel force of impact, and it never got easier. He’d cringed with horrified empathy and burned with futile anger at the men who’d implemented such punishment on his son, but he’d never imagined the agony of witnessing such an assault for himself and being unable to prevent it or even shout out in protest at the callous treatment. The cry that forced its way out of his lungs was strangled stillborn against the barrier of the tape across his mouth. The entire situation was light years past unbearable. 

He struggled desperately against the people restraining him, his hands twisting compulsively within the metal handcuffs, needing to force the men away from his son or, at the very least, interpose his own body between Steve and his assailants, but with his hands bound he was unable to gain enough leverage to force his way free. He shook with impotent fury and, for a moment, closed his eyes, unable to watch more of the brutal assault on his son’s vulnerable body. However, the thuds and soft grunts of effort conjured up as much horror in his imagination as the sight itself, and he suffered through the phantom pain of each blow that landed even though it was obvious Steve had lost consciousness.

Every second dragged by leaden-footed, expanding into limitless limbo, although in truth not many minutes could have passed. Mark abandoned his efforts to free himself, concentrating only on removing the tape adhering to his mouth, scraping his face frantically against his shoulder. Steve’s beating was being administered with cold precision; it was an object lesson in obedience directed solely at him. To these men, his son was merely a pawn in a brutal game to ensure his compliance. 

Enveloped in the vicarious pain of his son, Mark barely noticed the brief burn as the tape was finally stripped away from his skin, aware only of the freedom to employ at least his voice to halt the merciless punishment.

“Stop...Please!” Pride was irrelevant when weighed in the scales against his son’s life, and he would have fallen to his knees and begged without a second thought if he’d believed it would prove effective. The promise of incipient perjury was likewise insignificant under the circumstances and more likely to invoke the desired response. “I’ll do what you want, say whatever you want, just don’t hurt him any more.” His voice wavered, as much with fury as with fear, but he hoped desperately it would be convincing either way.

He didn’t see the signal from behind to stop, but a boot poised to slam into his son’s unprotected ribs was replaced on the ground without completing its mission, and for the first time, Mark dragged in a proper lungful of air, only realising that his breathing had been compromised when the black spots cleared from his vision.

Despite the fact that his legs felt like they had mutated from flesh and bone to rubber, he again tried to rise to move towards his son’s inert body, but once more unyielding hands held him down, causing rage to slither through his blood like an amphetamine, lending him new strength.

“Please...I need to make sure he’s alright.” His tone was humble, defeated, not expressing any of the defiance that threatened to explode from inside. It was clear that Steve would pay the penalty for anything other than total capitulation on his part, and he couldn’t bear to be responsible for any additional injuries inflicted on his son. His demeanor mustn’t deviate from that of the broken old man they expected.

A dark mass interrupted his view, and he forced his gaze up to meet the eyes of their captor, allowing only his very real concern for his son to show and not his remarkably unhippocratic impulses towards the man.

“I want to make our expectations clear, Dr. Sloan.” Hicks’ voice was as cold and tight as a steel wire, ready to slice through any perceived opposition. “Tomorrow, Michael Oliver will be found not guilty. I don’t care what you have to do to make that happen, but that is the only verdict that will result in the return of your son. A hung jury or a mistrial will be regarded as failure on your part. If you are unable to convince the court, you will not see your son again. His body will not be found, but I can promise you that his death will be painful and prolonged.”

Mark forced back the bile that rose in his throat, the image the words provoked all too potently graphic after the recent demonstration of violence. He would think about how to persuade a jury that his initial testimony had been false later, but for now, he had to concentrate on safeguarding his son’s future.

“I’ll do it,” he promised, not caring whether his words were true, only that they convinced the man confronting him. “However,” he swallowed again, knowing the risk he was taking, “before I do, I’ll want proof that my son is alive.”

A frown settled over Hicks’ heavy-jowled face. “You do not get to set conditions.” He turned and nodded at one of his thugs who, without preliminaries, sank a vicious kick into Steve’s exposed stomach.

Mark turned impossibly paler, and nausea churned turbulently in his gut, but he schooled his features to firm resolution. “If you keep doing that you’re going to kill him. Then you might as well kill me too. My original testimony is part of the official record and will stand with the autopsy results and the verdict will be certain.”

There was no reaction from Hicks, but also no further retribution, so Mark continued with more assurance. “I’ve said I’ll do what you want. But I need some guarantee that you’re not going to take him out of here and kill him.”

Finally, Hicks nodded grudgingly. “What’s your cell phone number? Take the phone with you in the morning. We’ll call.” He leaned closer, his sour breath ghosting in a malodorous cloud around Mark’s face. “Don’t try anything. If you contact the police, we’ll know and your son will pay the price of your transgression.”

Mark nodded his head obediently, feeling that he had at least won a stay of execution for his son. However, as Hicks signaled to his men to carry Steve out of the room, Mark panicked, suddenly terrified he’d never see his son again and mentally flailing for some way to at least postpone his departure. “Wait, please!”

Hicks turned from supervising the operation, clearly enjoying the exercise of his power, so Mark elaborated on his plea.

“Please, he’s hurt. Just let me check him over before you take him.”

The Mob boss gave the request due deliberation, though Mark sensed that he was merely considering the relative impact of imagining Steve’s injuries versus witnessing them on the father’s future compliance. 

Eventually he nodded. “You have two minutes.”

The handcuffs were removed from Mark’s wrists, and he was finally allowed to move across the room to drop to his knees beside his son. His hands fluttered briefly over Steve’s body, uncertain where to begin then, needing reassurance, he felt for a pulse, breathing a slight sigh of relief when he found it still strong. He started to run his hands gently over Steve’s torso, checking for fractures and signs of internal injury. He could feel the heat of deep, palpable bruises and multiple small, oozing lacerations interspersed with larger pronounced gashes. There was too much swelling to be sure, but Mark suspected that several ribs were cracked. However, there were no obvious breaks. It had been a clinical beating by professionals, intended to maximise pain without causing lethal damage.

There was only limited relief in that realisation. Once Steve was taken away, his captors would have little compunction hurting him or killing him when his purpose had been served. Mark had to stop them taking his son, yet for all his vaunted intelligence, he couldn’t think of a way to prevent it. He took a desperate stab at a reprieve.

“He needs to be in a hospital. There’s a broken rib here that could puncture a lung at any time.”

Hicks was unimpressed. “That’s something for you to think about while you’re testifying, isn’t it?” 

He nodded at his men to move back in, but Mark blocked their way, shielding his son protectively. “Let me take him to a hospital and I swear that I’ll still say whatever you want.”

“I need more of a guarantee of your best effort. Now step out of the way, or do you need another demonstration of the penalties for disobedience?”

“No.” Mark’s voice was thick with the effort it took to force out the response. If the threat of reprisals had been hanging solely over his own head, he would have tried something, however useless, but, as it was, resistance was worse than futile. He couldn’t bring himself to actually withdraw, but stayed on the floor as Steve’s body was dragged out from under his hands. He knelt, frozen in misery, watching them leave while his heart tried to hammer its way right out of his chest and follow. He rose blindly to his feet as they disappeared from view, attempting automatically to keep them in sight, but Hicks stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Stay in this room 'til we’re gone and remember what I’ve told you -- no police and Oliver better be found not guilty.”

With a last remonstrative shake, he left the room, and Mark tracked his progress aurally through the house. The minute the front door slammed, he ran for his bedroom, hoping to catch sight of something that would provide a lead to Steve’s whereabouts later. A light SUV with lettering on the side was just exiting the drive, but it was too dark to read the license plate.

Numb with dismay, he slowly retraced his steps back to his study, ending up staring down at the small patch of blood marking the place where Steve’s head had been lying. It was concrete proof, if he needed it, that the events of the last few hours hadn’t been merely the product of a fevered mind. Yet it all felt too horrific to be real, and the deathly silence that surrounded him belied the recent violence that had occurred. 

He needed to think, to plan both his testimony and a way to rescue Steve, but his mind had never seemed more unfocused, turbulent emotions leaving him feeling like a breaker-battered shore after a hurricane. The normally comforting ambience of his study was shattered, so he moved into the kitchen in the hopes of composing himself. Mechanically, he prepared a cup of coffee, needing the jolt caffeine could provide. Suddenly, the smell of something scorched impinged on his nostrils, and he recalled the stew that he’d been cooking. He turned off the oven and retrieved the scorched mess from inside, an indescribable loneliness settling in the pit of his stomach as he remembered the plans he’d had for the evening that had turned into a waking nightmare when he’d opened the front door in guileless confidence to be confronted by armed men. They’d forced their way in, tied him up with no explanation, then settle in to wait, and Mark’s initial consternation had solidified into dread as he’d realised that Steve was their real quarry.

The Oliver case had seemed so simple at the time; it hadn’t even involved any detective work on his part -- a husband not willing to wait for his wife’s life insurance and assisting her to a premature end. Lilian Oliver had been a long-time patient of Mark’s whose poor eyesight had recently deteriorated to blindness. She was suffering from congestive heart failure and, among other drugs, was taking hydrochlorothiazide, a diuretic and antihypertensive, and spironolactone to help her retain potassium. Like most people taking diuretics she kept a supply of potassium supplements in the house. One day, before leaving for work, Michael Oliver switched her medication, giving her potassium instead of hydrochlorothiazide. The drugs had felt different in her fingers and she had queried the prescription, but he had reassured her and she had trusted him. 

He’d callously left her to die, anticipating placing the blame for the ‘mistake’ on her blindness. However, even as she collapsed from acidosis, Lilian called 911. They had ultimately been unable to save her, her heart already too damaged to prevail, but before she died in the hospital, she had related to Mark the morning’s dosage incident. 

It wouldn’t be too hard to muddy his own testimony, to claim that in retrospect he believed that he’d misunderstood Lilian’s statement or that she was too confused in her last moments for her words to hold credibility. However, he knew that whatever ensued in the courtroom, it wouldn’t begin to solve his real problem. Having kidnapped a police officer to corrupt the course of justice, it made no sense that the Mob would just let him go, to bring charges of kidnapping and assault and to investigate the connection between Oliver and organised crime.

After several intense, draining, but ultimately unproductive, hours spent alternatively pacing and sitting, Mark realised that he needed someone to bounce his thoughts off as his best inspirations tended to materialize that way. Steve always provided an excellent sounding board, but it was a role played almost as often by Jesse and Amanda. Considering family circumstances, his choice was obvious and he punched in the well-known number and was soon rewarded by Jesse’s sleepy tones.

“Dr. Travis here.”

“Jesse, it’s Mark.”

“Mark!” There was a pause, then Jesse’s voice rose an octave. “Do you know what time it is? It’s after 2:00!”

Despite the rhetorical nature of the question, Mark could have answered in the negative. Time had seemed irrelevant. “Jess, I’m at home. Can you come over?”

Something of his agitation must have communicated itself, because the next time Jesse spoke, there was no trace of his earlier somnolence. “I’ll be right there,” he answered crisply. There were no superfluous questions or hesitation, and Mark spared a thought for how lucky he was to have such a dependable friend.

Jesse was as good as his word, making the journey in record time. He may have been restrained with questions on the phone, but they started spilling out of him the moment Mark opened the front door.

“Are you alright? What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

Mark was unable to reassure him. “Please, come in and take a seat and I’ll explain.”

He led Jesse into the kitchen and urged him to sit down, turning away from the table to get them both some coffee and to give himself a moment to fight for greater composure and to marshal his thoughts.

“Steve’s been...” he began abruptly, but then stopped, trying to find the right word. Nothing he could think of could adequately describe the horror of watching helplessly while his injured son was torn away from him. “They took him,” was all he could manage, but the look of devastation in his eyes compensated for the deficiency of vocabulary and shocked Jesse to the point of panic.

“Who? Who took him? Mark, what are you talking about?”

Mark handed him the mug of coffee then slowly, almost in a monotone, began to narrate the evening’s confrontation. The precise control in his voice was somehow more poignant than unrestrained grief, but his agitation was betrayed by his movements as he paced restlessly, tension and distress evident in every motion. As he tried to describe the punishment meted out to Steve, all the words he meant to say dried up and stuck together in a huge lump somewhere between his heart and his mouth. 

The lost look in his eyes wrenched at Jesse, and he found himself unable to sit quietly any longer. It was obvious that Mark was still operating on the adrenalin and emotions generated by his ordeal and, as a doctor, Jesse knew that sort of immense stress took more of a toll on the body than running a marathon. He guided Mark to a chair and urged him to relax, gently distracting him from the memories that were clearly consuming him, the sounds and sights of his son’s suffering more real and present to him than the soft glow of the kitchen surrounding him now. 

Mark sat across the table, slumped in his seat, slightly shaking hands grasping the coffee Jesse thrust into them, lashes sweeping the dark circles under his red-rimmed downcast eyes.

Jesse tried to bring him back to the practicalities of the situation. “What are you going to do?” he asked softly.

“I don’t know,” Mark replied helplessly. “I’ve thought and thought and I can’t come up with anything that will help.”

“Are you worried about lying on the stand?” Jesse asked carefully, unsure exactly where the crux of Mark’s dilemma lay.

“God, no! I’d perjure myself a thousand times over if I thought it would help Steve. However, once I’ve given my testimony, they’ll have no more use for him.”

“You think they’re going to kill him?” Jesse looked horrified. “But he’s a cop! Surely they know that if they kill him, they’ll bring the whole force of the LAPD down on themselves.”

Mark shook his head grimly. “Assault and kidnapping an officer would have much the same effect. If they release him, not only are they laying themselves open to those charges, but they’re also exposing the link between themselves and Oliver, leaving it open to scrutiny. What’s the point of having him found not guilty if he’s useless to them?”

“But what about you?” Jesse protested. “The same reasoning would apply to you, and they have to know that if Steve isn’t returned, you’ll reveal the whole scheme.”

“I have no doubts that after I’ve testified, I’m supposed to disappear too -- experience some fatal accident.” The words were spoken dispassionately.

Jesse was now about as ashen as Mark. “You’ve got to go to the police. They can protect you and...and look for Steve.”

Mark’s fist clenched and unclenched spasmodically, but his voice remained controlled. “That would sign his death warrant even faster. The police would have no choice but to inform the judge who would declare a mistrial. They couldn’t allow the trial to continue knowing that I was under duress to lie, since double jeopardy means they only get one shot at prosecution. If that happens, they’d kill Steve immediately.”

“Wh...what are you going to do?” Jesse asked again, not realising that he’d returned to the same question, but that now new understanding layered the query with entirely different connotations. It was no longer a request for information, but an exclamation of appalled helplessness.

Mark took a sip of coffee then replaced his mug on the table, staring at it as if it might hold some answers. “I need to play for time. I can’t involve the police, but I need access to their records to try to figure out the link between Oliver and the men who have Steve. Maybe I can get some leverage that way. Most of all, I just need more time.”

“When do you have to be in court?” Jesse questioned him hoarsely.

“9:30. All the other witnesses for the prosecution have testified. The DA was keeping me for last.”

“9:30!” Jesse looked down at his wrist, but he’d left home so hastily, he’d forgotten to put on his watch. The clock over the doorway supplied the information. “That’s less than six hours.”

Six hours -- three hundred and sixty minutes. His son’s life measured in minutes; mute, inexorable increments of time, each relentless but fragile, dragging hope with it as it fell away inevitably into oblivion.

“We’re not going to give up,” Mark said with bleak resolution, allowing anger to shore up determination. “I’m not going to let him die. Let’s go through it once more.”

Jesse obediently starting recounting the facts as he knew them. “Oliver is a banker, so he was probably laundering money for the mob.”

Mark nodded slowly. “That was my original assumption, but now I wonder. If he earns a decent salary through his own job and presumably is benefiting from his association with the Mob, why was he desperate enough to kill his wife for the insurance?” 

“Maybe it’s the other way round,” Jesse suggested. “Maybe he owes them money and they want to ensure that he’s around to pay it back.”

“That’s good thinking, Jess, but for the risks they’re taking, there has to be more to this than the debt one man could rack up.”

“Then, as you said, why bother killing her?” Frustration rode high in Jesse’s voice. “From your description, she was likely to keel over from a heart attack at any time.”

“Perhaps once his business with the Mob was completed, he intended to bolt, and he was greedy enough to want the insurance...money...or...” Mark’s words trailed off slowly, and from the look of rapt concentration on his face, Jesse could tell that inspiration had struck.

Profound relief and a trust, based on proven experience, in the gears in that inventive brain, relaxed the worst of Jesse’s tension. As he watched silently, allowing Mark time to fully develop his plan, he wondered idly if it was a particular pattern of neurons that made that intuitive leap so easy for his friend.

“Well?” he prodded at last, as Mark eased back in his chair, fingers drumming thoughtfully on the table.

“You’re a genius, Jess.” 

“Well, of course,” the young doctor admitted modestly, frantically casting his mind back to discover something that might have earned him that title, but his contributions to the conversation seemed to lack brilliance.

“You always seem to say the right thing at the right time,” Mark continued unhelpfully. He leaned forward again, transfixing Jesse with a gimlet glare of blue eyes, and suddenly the young doctor felt uneasy. Instead of the usual good-humoured enthusiasm for a plan in formation, he could only see a bleak desperation that didn’t auger well. Jesse’s renewed apprehension wasn’t mitigated by Mark’s next words.

“Jesse, we don’t have much time here. I need you to listen and to do what I say without any arguments.”

This was one injunction that proved impossible to follow, but the arguments Jesse mustered were bluntly dismissed, and an hour later he left despondently on the first of his errands.

Mark tried to sleep, knowing how taxing the day would prove, but his mind wouldn't be silenced, replaying the evening’s events in horrifying detail and the ache in his chest only expanded. The darkness seemed to close in around him, trying to smother him, and the house echoed hollowly without his son’s vibrant presence. Sitting down at the computer to do more research on Oliver, he wondered how he would manage to stay sane until the morning.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Although near-terror had dissolved his insides into an acidic pool of soup, Jesse faked an indifferent yawn in an attempt to remain inconspicuous among the apathetic spectators who filed into their seats in the courtroom. The trial had generated little publicity. There were no outraged, grieving relatives or especially sensational elements to pander to public sensibilities. It was just another sordid tale of greed.

In the crowd, there was a small class of legal students, notebooks in hand, a couple of jaded court reporters, and a sprinkling of miscellaneous individuals, some of whom looked as if they had merely chosen the air-conditioned room in preference to sitting at a hot street corner panhandling. Jesse shifted uneasily on the hard, wooden seat. Ever since Mark’s trial for the murder of Gordon Ganza and Spring Dano, courtrooms had made him supremely uncomfortably. The adversarial system and its deliberate twisting of the truth riled his innate sense of fair play, and he longed for a more reliable way that justice could be guaranteed. The travesty of the verdict several years ago that had condemned an innocent man to death had eroded his confidence, and now the day’s events in this room would determine his best friend’s fate.

The entrance of the defendant provided a distraction from his morbid thoughts and a respite from tedium for the other occupants of the room. Michael Oliver had been denied bail and was dressed in a prison uniform. It may just have been Jesse’s preconceived notion, but he thought Oliver looked remarkably smug for a man wearing handcuffs and facing a death sentence. He noticed the defendant cast a quick look into the audience and, following his line of sight, Jesse saw two men who’d seated themselves since he’d last surveyed the room. They were dressed neatly in ties and suits, but they carried themselves with an air of brutish physical assurance that Jesse had seen before in hitmen, and he was immediately certain that the couple were there to observe and report on Mark’s performance. 

Icy prickles of fear skittered up and down his spine, but the formerly amorphous dread now had a focus and, as he stared at the two men, the physical representation of the danger the Sloans faced, anger stirred and rose to match his anxiety. He hastily looked away before they noticed him glaring and, at that moment, the bailiff called, "Silence, all present will arise. The Judge of the Superior Court of Los Angeles County..." 

Jesse rose to his feet automatically but tuned out the rest of the announcement, his mind running ahead to Mark’s evidence. Mark was currently in a waiting room nearby since, in an effort to keep their testimony unprejudiced, no witnesses were allowed to observe the proceedings until they themselves had finished testifying. Jesse fervently hoped that the older man had received the phone call which would prove his son was still alive.

The two counsels were called up to the judge to argue some point regarding admission of evidence, and Jesse fidgeted with impatience, the delay wearing on already shredded nerves. Finally, to his relief, Mark was called to the witness stand. As the older doctor proceeded down the aisle, Jesse’s chest tightened in a sudden premonition of disaster. 

To his familiar eye, Mark looked terrible, the pallor of his face a match for the white of his hair, and his eyes were shadowed. Yet Jesse could still distinguish both the ravaging worry that hollowed out those blue eyes and the implacable resolve behind them. He wondered if organised crime had chosen well in their choice for a hostage or had made a disastrous blunder. They had probably decided that any parent would elect to lie rather than allow their child to be hurt, but did they really have any idea of the depth of connection between this father and son --the trust, understanding, warmth, reliance, and of course, the love, although that word seemed inadequate to encompass all that lay between them.

The Mob was attempting to victimise an old man, but Jesse knew the fierce determination and intelligence that was now pitted against them. However, Mark appeared exhausted. He stumbled slightly stepping into the witness box, catching himself and hauling himself in clumsily, but his voice was unwaveringly clear as he unflinchingly agreed to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. 

Jesse pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache blossoming behind his eyes while his gut churned. The prosecutor was leading Mark through his relationship with the Olivers, establishing his credentials both as a professional and as a witness, but it was easy to see the toll even this mild interrogation was taking on his friend. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on Mark’s face, and he paused to clear his throat several times.

Eventually, even the judge seemed to notice that something was amiss. “Dr. Sloan, are you alright?”

Mark smiled weakly, taking the opportunity to wipe his face. “Perhaps a little indigestion. Could I possibly have some water?”

Jesse didn’t dare look directly at the two men behind him, but he could feel their intense interest in Mark’s every movement, and his own tension soared correspondingly higher, his palms damp with perspiration. Even the law students seemed to sense a inchoate element of drama, and the rustling of their papers ceased allowing an expectant silence to fill the room.

Jesse leaned forward, quashing the almost irresistible impulse to jump up and stop the painful scene from continuing as the prosecutor took advantage of the heightened attention of the jury to press on to the most crucial testimony.

“Dr. Sloan, could you please tell us about the events of October 17th?”

Mark nodded, taking a couple of deep breaths before starting as if struggling to draw more oxygen into his lungs. “I was in my office when I was paged.” His voice sounded oddly garbled to Jesse’s keen ears as if his tongue had suddenly grown too thick for accurate enunciation. “In the emergency room, I found...”

There was a pause, almost as if Mark had forgotten what he wanted to say, and Jesse unconsciously held his breath too, but then with a terrifying suddenness, Mark clutched his chest and collapsed, his face distorted in pain.

“Mark!” Jesse yelled, jumping to his feet. For a split second he froze, hoping for some sign of life, then he vaulted over the front seat, warding off the deputy who moved to stop him. “I’m a doctor! Someone call 911!”

He skidded to a stop beside the witness box. He could see Mark crumpled inside, but the space was too cramped to examine him in there.

“Help me get him out,” he panted, squeezing in behind Mark to lift him up. His friend’s body was a dead weight, though Jesse refused to examine that concept too closely, but with the help of the deputy he succeeded in maneuvering Mark out onto the floor, where his blue lips and clammy skin informed Jesse of his condition even before questing fingers confirmed the truth.

“There’s no pulse!” The horror of that moment eclipsed any previous trauma the young doctor had lived through, and the fine hairs rose on his arms, but Jesse’s training and experience allowed him to bury the awareness of who he was working on in the familiarity of his proficient actions.

Quickly loosening Mark’s collar and tie, he tilted his head back, pinched his nose and breathed twice, checking to see the corresponding rising of his patient’s chest. There was no other response so he began compressions, counting automatically.

“Is there an AED in the building?” he demanded harshly, sweat slipping down his back, more from the emotional stress than the physical exertion.

“A what?” The deputy looked back at him blankly.

“Automatic External Defribrilator!” The fifteen compressions were complete and he moved back to the breathing.

“Yes, there is.” It was the Sheriff who answered and left the room at a run as his deputies tried to clear the courtroom.

“I know CPR. I can help.” One of the female law students offered tentatively, kneeling next to Mark’s head.

Jesse gestured her over to perform the inhalations, not trusting his voice. “...1..2..3..4...” Brain death and permanent death start to occur in just 4 to 6 minutes after someone experiences cardiac arrest. It sounded like Mark’s voice in his head -- had he learned that in one of Mark’s classes?

“..5..6..7...”The chance of survival is reduced by 7 to 10 percent for each minute that passes after cardiac arrest. Channeling Mark wasn’t helping to drown the gibbering panic that threatened to rise to the surface.

As he reached the count of 15, he pulled his car keys out of his pocket, throwing them at a young deputy. “Red Mitsubishi in Lot 2A. There’s a leather bag with medical supplies in the trunk. Get it, and for God’s sake, run!”

He only had time to see the young man disappear before it was his turn to pump again. Jesse’s world had narrowed to the rhythmic compressions, no longer knowing or caring if the two Mob spies were observing his desperate efforts. Time contracted down to those hundred per minute intervals - push, push, push. 

The AED appeared miraculously in his vision, an mechanical oasis of hope in a desert of human despair. He switched it on hurriedly, then, working ahead of the voice prompt, he ripped open Mark’s shirt, exploding buttons in all directions. He attached the two pads and the connection in record time. “Analysing, do not touch the patient.”

He waved the student off and stood poised as the machine announced, “Shock advised, please stand clear. Press the shock button now.” But Jesse had already anticipated the mechanical voice, and Mark’s body jerked convulsively as the electric current surged through him, then Jesse groped frantically for a pulse. A thready, uncertain beat whispered against his fingertips, and Mark’s lungs inhaled for the first time of their own volition since his collapse.

“That’s it, come on, Mark, come on,” Jesse coaxed urgently, but the faltering pulse failed to strengthen and steady and he looked away from Mark for the first time since he entered the courtroom. His surroundings appeared oddly alien to his eyes, as if he’d been transported there unknowingly. “Where are those paramedics?” he yelled angrily.

“They’re on their way.” If this was intended to reassure, it failed miserably. Mark needed them here now. At that moment the doors burst open. From his sweaty, nearly puce, face, it was clear that the young deputy had taken Jesse’s injunction to hurry seriously. Jesse’s eyes fastened eagerly on the bag swinging wildly beside him. 

His hands were trembling as he located the bottle and drew its contents into a syringe. Pausing only for a perfunctory wipe of Mark’s arm, he plunged the needle into a vein.

He grabbed the stethoscope, placing it over Mark’s heart. The skin on his back felt cold and hot at the same time, and he held his breath unconsciously as he focused all his senses over the triphammer of his own heart. Suddenly he heard it and also felt the firm, more established beat, pushing more solidly at his fingers. Air flooded into his lungs as if sucked there by the relief which surged through his system. The arrhythmic beat settled into a weak, but steady, cadence, and Jesse was still listening contentedly when the paramedics showed up.

Mark was loaded onto a gurney, wheeled out through the mob of curious faces waiting outside the courthouse and into the ambulance. Jesse clambered in beside him, grateful that he knew the medics and that they were willing to let him continue his treatment. 

Once Mark was safely monitored and stabilised, Jesse sat down limply, the rebound of suppressed emotions impossible to deny. He buried his face in his hands, his fingertips tingling slightly as he bordered on hyperventilation while thoughts spun frenziedly through his mind. How had everything gone so badly wrong and how the hell was he going to explain this to Steve? On the heels of that concept came the numbing recollection that there was a good probability that he’d never get the chance to relate anything to his friend again, and if they lost Steve, he had the feeling that his work in saving Mark would be irrelevant.

“Damn, damn, damn!”


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The greasy pizza aroma wafting in Steve’s direction was more nauseating than appetizing, even though it had been a long while since he’d last eaten. That was probably a good thing since none of the five men sitting round the table seemed inclined to offer him any sustenance. Why feed a dead man?

Steve mentally composed a scathing discourse on the evils of junk food for breakfast, its dietary implications and negative effects on the cardiovascular system. He’d heard the lecture often enough from his father, Jesse and Amanda to have both the facts and the vocabulary down pat. He worked it into what he felt was a consummate example of rhetoric, but, discretion being the better part of valor, resisted the temptation to attract attention to himself and aggravate his captors even more by interrupting their poker game to deliver it.

It did, however, provide some distraction from his unenviable position for fifteen minutes, and a diversion of any kind was welcome. Steve had been the recipient of beatings before, but nothing so methodical, so comprehensive. It seemed that every inch of his body was sending out competing claims of agony; muscles, nerves and his very bones aching savagely. He would currently award the prize to his shoulders where tightly wound muscles kept sending pain shooting down his arms, protesting angrily over the length of time they’d been kept bound unnaturally behind him.

He tried to shift slightly to relieve the strain, but the minute contraction of his stomach muscles provoked a cramp in that abused area, sending yet another surge of pain and weakness through him, forcing him to grit his teeth as he waited it out. 

The intense, tearing spasm eventually eased to a dull ache, although his muscles still twitched involuntarily, and he slumped against the wall. This didn’t provide any comfort as the hard surface impressed itself cruelly into his bruised back. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and the world tilted sickeningly before his eyes, so he closed them.

It would seem that his situation was dismal. Even with his hands untied, he doubted he was physically capable of defending himself against one assailant, never mind the five who currently occupied the room, and he had no doubts that they intended to kill him once he’d served his purpose. They had made no effort to conceal their identities, and they had to know they couldn’t kidnap a police officer with impunity.

However, Steve refused to believe the outlook was as bleak as it appeared. Although he had no idea what Mark could do to help, he knew his father would not be sitting passively at this time, but would be applying his immensely resourceful and inventive mind to the problem and he had every faith that Mark would devise some sort of plan. Given time, his father would find him. But that was the crux of the matter. If Mark managed to string his evidence out to span the length of the day, that still left them less than twelve hours, and even miracle workers needed time to effect their miracles.

Of course, one of the few drawbacks of that unspoken trust that lay between him and his father was that if Mark were unable to accomplish an opportune rescue, he would never forgive himself. Steve could imagine the illimitable scalding guilt that would corrode his life if their position were reversed.

He couldn’t just sit back and expect his father to extricate him. There had to be some ways he could increase the odds at his end. He could start by getting a better idea of his surroundings. He knew that he was in a motel room; the generic and sparse furniture had told him that much. If he could find a name, that would narrow down the possibilities. 

He cracked an eye experimentally. The room had stopped spinning, but his vision was still too blurred to distinguish more than the most salient features of the room. He was tucked between the wall and the second twin bed, and the bathroom was almost certainly on the other side of the wall. The five poker players were engrossed in their game in front of the large, currently curtained, window next to the door. Steve eyed the dappled material concealing the panes of glass with fuzzy appraisal. It offered the best chance for fast egress, yet his last effort at diving through a window to save his life from a gun-wielding psycho hadn’t turned out that well. These professionals would perforate him with an effectiveness that would leave him looking like a target at the shooting range. Moreover, with his luck, he’d probably find mid-exit that they were three floors up and he’d end up doing an impromptu swan-dive to the ground below.

The effort to focus his uncooperative vision caused his already stabbing headache to slice more viciously across his eyeballs, and his stomach rolled lazily up to his throat. He shut his eyes again, hastily swallowing back the persistent nausea. If he could concentrate past the painful pounding of his heartbeat, he should be able to garner more information from outside. The muted roar of his pulse merged with the muffled rumble of traffic, but eventually he could distinguish the hum of countless vehicles rushing past and the frequent cough of trucks changing gear, and he guessed they were near the ramp of a freeway.

As he relaxed slightly into the aural concentration, he found that he could pick up more than he’d thought possible. A door banging and indistinguishable voices calling gave him the impression that they were a floor up, and the reverberating footsteps passing by the room sketched the picture of a wooden walkway connecting the different rooms on this level. But there was still nothing to narrow down his exact location.

He wasn’t sure why his captors had chosen a motel in which to wait; he’d expected to find himself in some dingy warehouse when he’d recovered consciousness. It seemed too mundane and innocuous for the inherent, looming violence, but he supposed that it was a location which couldn’t be connected back to the Mob.

Motels usually had identifying products and motifs scattered around, perhaps on the table between the beds or in the bathroom, neither of which was in his immediate line of sight. Maybe next to the television... it was a struggle to open his eyes against the relentless throbbing behind them, but he succeeded. There was a promising white rectangle on the chest of drawers next to the grey blur of the television. Steve blinked his eyes and squinted and, for a second, it was like watching an old Polaroid picture develop, it came into focus just long enough to recognise the familiar half-yellow sun in a black background before it deteriorated into impressionistic art. He was in a Days Inn. 

It was a small accomplishment, but a triumph nonetheless, proof that his battered body and addled brain were still capable of functioning under the most adverse of circumstances. Of course, now he just needed to be able to burst out of his handcuffs, subdue five armed men, and jump tall buildings in a single bound.

His dubious sense of achievement was short-lived as the next words from Hicks near the window brought his head around in a jarring twist.

“OK, it’s time.”

The mobster stretched, then turned in his captive’s direction, pulling his gun from its holster as he moved. Fear cut through Steve, chilling his body, and behind it anger and desperation churned. He’d always accepted the possibility that he would die in the course of his duty, but had assumed that at least he would go out fighting. To die, tied up, helpless, and alone was a horrifying prospect. However, he wasn’t going to let his murderer see the dread that prickled every inch of his skin. His expression grew slowly blank as he painstakingly washed all the emotion out of it except for the defiance which blazed from his eyes, and he braced himself automatically, the horror of the moment subsuming the pain that the tension exacted on his battered frame.

Hicks sat on the bed near him, just out of range of a possible kick, his gun lazily aimed at his captive’s stomach, and simply because his mouth was so dry he wasn’t sure he could speak, Steve forced the words out of his mouth.

“Let me guess, you need a sixth at poker?”

A wry, unbidden smile twisted at Hicks’ lips, an acknowledgement of the stubborn courage of the man near his feet. “You wouldn’t want to play with them, they cheat. Actually, I have something else in mind.”

Steve shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m rather busy at the moment, but I’ll try to fit you into my schedule.”

Hicks reached backwards and scooped the telephone off the bedside table. “You are going to talk to your father. You will tell him that you are fine and that, if he performs his side of the bargain adequately, you will be released. Do you understand?”

Steve gave a curt nod of assent, concealing his eagerness for the communication. He’d been afraid that he would die without the chance to speak to his father, and the prospect of hearing Mark’s voice was tantalizing. It was also an opportunity to transmit the little he’d learnt. As if reading his mind, Hicks leaned forward, pressing the barrel of his gun almost caressingly against his prisoner’s temple.

“And if you deviate from that script, your father will have the dubious pleasure of hearing his only child die over the phone.”

Anger at this indirect threat towards his father merged with no small amount of fear in Steve's mind, but he pushed both emotions into the background, forcing an, at least outward, appearance of complete capitulation. “I understand.”

Hicks dialed the number Mark had provided the night before, and it was answered almost instantly. “Sloan here.”

“Dr. Sloan, your son would like a word with you.” Hicks held the telephone to Steve’s ear, his automatic lined up over the top of it.

“Steve, are you alright?” Even taut with worry and distress, Mark’s voice was balm to his soul and provided inspiration for his next words.

“Yeah, I’m just fine, best 24 hours of my life.” He said it with light sarcasm, hoping the triphammer of his pulse wasn’t obvious. It wasn’t much of a clue, but he knew Mark would be alert to every nuance and choice of his words and if they narrowed down the area where he was being held, he trusted his father would put 24 hours and Days Inn together.

The pressure of the muzzle against his head increased reprovingly, and Steve continued hastily. “Pop..” it was name he never used for Mark, and he hoped his father would understand it negated everything that followed. “... just do what they say, and everything will be alright. They’ll let me go when the jury reaches a not-guilty verdict, don’t worry.”

He wanted to add something more, desperately conscious that it might be the last time they spoke, but the circumstances made any personal addendum impossible, and he had to trust that his father knew what he couldn’t say. Hicks pulled the phone away, replacing the head set with no farther intimidation, and he eyed Steve with a whimsical smile in which, however, there was more triumph than humour. Steve met his eyes levelly to conceal his abrupt sense of loss at the terminating of his last connection with the most important person in his life, yet he was also imbued with a new sense of urgency.

He kept his voice casual. “Since I have you over here, I have to tell you that unless you want it messy, I need to go to the bathroom.”

Hicks regarded him dispassionately. “If you can get there under your own steam, be my guest.” He knew the crippling effects of a severe beating, and doubted his prisoner would be capable of that much independent locomotion. He turned away dismissively.

“Wait, untie my hands.” It was more of a command than a request, and the mobster was frowning in automatic refusal when Steve continued tauntingly. “What’s the matter? You think walking to the bathroom is going to be too much for me, but you’re afraid that I might be able to take out five armed men?”

His words struck the right note of derision, and Hicks reached into his pocket for the keys. “Only while you’re in the bathroom.”

He reached around Steve and none too gently unlocked and removed the handcuffs. As his arms were released from the unnatural position in which they’d been restrained for the last ten hours, Steve’s muscles cramped and spasmed, nerves twitched and quivered, but he refused to acknowledge the pain in front of the man watching him maliciously, offering him a grim smile through bloodless lips even as his throat filled with bile as he fought the nausea brought on by the motion of his damaged body. 

Obviously deciding that his prisoner offered little by way of entertainment, Hicks returned to his poker game, casting only infrequent glances to check on Steve’s progress.

Eventually, Steve's breathing returned to normal, his body relaxing in infinitesimal increments until it was obvious the worst was over. It still took several minutes before he could bring his hands round in front, the skin on his wrists worn raw and bloody from pulling against the restraints.

Small, exploratory stretching produced no cramps, but abused muscles groaned, bruises throbbed, and his ribs ached in a way that hinted at fractures. He managed to get one leg beneath him and steadied himself for the crucial exertion. It took a Herculean effort, as if he were fighting Jovian gravity for every inch he ascended, but he got to his feet, the crushing agony of a monstrous spasm his punishment for this defiance of physics.

Unobserved, he might have surrendered to weakness and collapsed back on the floor, but sensing the vindictive eyes across the room, pride locked his knees and, with the assistance of the wall, he remained upright until the cramp eased to a grinding, stiff soreness, and he lurched towards the bathroom, a smear of blood marring the light brown paint behind him.

The bathroom was a welcome refuge from the constant surveillance, giving him a few minutes to regroup in privacy. He used the facilities, and was relieved to see no blood in his urine, the damage obviously more concentrated on his stomach and ribs than his kidneys. Without any real expectation of success, he searched the cupboards for potential weapons, but uncovered nothing of any more offensive capability than a bar of soap. 

His searching took him past the vanity mirror, and he nearly recoiled in fright from the unrecognisable reprobate he encountered there. His hair was spiky from the congealed gore caked in it, and his face was a swollen, misshapen mess, streaked with dried blood.

Steve took the opportunity to rinse the metallic tang out of his mouth and quench the worst of his thirst as he contemplated trying to clean up his face, but he eventually decided that the mere application of water would do little to repair the damage. He felt appallingly weak, but now that the debilitating cramps had stopped, far more human, but he knew that to stand any chance of escape or resistance, he needed to avoid stiffening up again, to stay as flexible as possible. 

Reluctantly realising that he’d stayed in the bathroom as long as permissible, he opened the door to be menaced by two aimed guns.

“Whoa!” He raised empty hands by his sides to emphasise his harmlessness. “What do you think I’ve been doing? MacGyvering a gun out of toilet parts and shampoo bottles?” A taut smile stretched his lips a fraction.

Hicks was unamused by the implication that his men were overly jumpy and dangled the handcuffs impatiently. Steve held out both hands obligingly, trying to keep the desperate hope off his face that the mobster wouldn’t insist on restraining his hands behind him. For the sake both of comfort and of any reasonable possibility of defense, he needed them in front.

The pain of the metal dragging cruelly against the broken, inflamed skin effectively veiled his relief as Hicks clicked on the shackles, and a violent shove sent Steve reeling back to his corner. He was immediately glad for his repositioned hands which allowed him to catch himself before he smashed his head against the wall. However, the impact jarred his ribs, and fresh blood dulled the metal as it bit deeper into his wrists.

While the others returned to their card game, Steve occupied himself with gentle calisthenics, tensing and relaxing each group of muscles, exercise that left him pale and sweating, but with a greater faith that his body would be able to meet the demands required of it instead of collapsing or seizing up at an inopportune moment.

Steve’s watch had broken in the earlier struggle, and he wondered idly if any part of it might prove useful as a lock pick or if he could isolate a bedspring for that purpose. However, he judged that approximately an hour had passed when the pounding of footsteps speeding along the walkway outside attracted the attention of all the room’s occupants. There was a moment of expectant stillness then, as the stamping of feet was replaced by hammering on the door, there was a flurry of movement as each gunman sprang into coordinated action, taking up defensive positions. There was only a minimal slackening of tension as an excited voice announced.   
“Hey, Boss, it’s me, Tony. Let me in!”

Hicks nodded to one of his men who cracked the door for confirmation before allowing the newcomer inside. Steve was watching the proceedings with no little apprehension, surmising that his fate was bound up in the man’s report. 

Hicks was clearly surprised by the development. “What are you doing here? Have they returned a verdict already?”

“There ain’t going to be no verdict today,” Tony announced brightly, clearly enjoying his prescient role.

“Why not? What’s going on?” Uncertainty and mistrust combined in a scowl on Hicks’ face.

“Hey, Boss. It was the coolest thing. The guy, the doc, he was in the middle of testifying when...wham...he just keeled over with a heart attack!”

“You sure it wasn’t some sort of trick?” Hicks questioned doubtfully.

“No, I swear it was kosher. Same thing happened to my Uncle Bob last Christmas -- splat, right in his mashed potatoes. I mean, the guy looked like shit, you know what I mean? Sorta blue and not breathing. ‘Sides, the way they were whaling on him, probably broke a rib or two in all the CPR stuff.”

Hicks glanced over at his hostage and, for a second, suspicious brown eyes met horror-stricken blue, and were somewhat convinced by the depth of anxiety written clearly there. 

Steve could feel his mouth drying out, icy tendrils of fear racing up his ribs to curl around his heart and crush the air out of his lungs. He shook his head unconsciously in denial as he closed his eyes and tried to remember how to breathe. His initial hope, that Mark had been bluffing, had faded in anguished misery as the description continued, and his imagination provided an all too vivid replay of his father’s fight for life. It made a hideous, tragic sense. He was as guilty as anyone of taking Mark’s youthful demeanor and eccentricities at face value, but, unlike most, he knew to a day how old his father actually was, and although he’d always believed Mark’s health to be sound, the appalling stresses of the last day would test any septuagenarian’s heart.

Even without Steve’s hints, Mark was astute enough to realise that, whichever way his testimony went, the verdict would guarantee his son’s death despite his best efforts and, as the trial proceeded, and its inevitable end approached, the pressure of that knowledge would have increased exponentially. Steve’s heart burned in empathy at his father’s ordeal. A feeling of shock and unreality distorted his senses, and he had to strain to hear the end of the story, simultaneously desperate and terrified to learn the outcome.

Tony was still enthusiastically relating the details. “Then they tried shocking the guy, and there was no faking that, the way he was jerking an’ all that.”

A sharp pain in his wrists broke through Steve’s concentration, and he realised he was straining against the handcuffs, yearning both to give assistance to his father that was far too late, and to attack the man who was so callously describing his pain.

“Anyway, I talked to this chick afterwards who’d helped out with the CPR and she said he didn’t look too good, so they ended up carting him off to the hospital, and the judge stopped everything for the day, saying they’ll reconvene tomorrow.”

Hicks still looked unconvinced. “Vinnie, go to the hospital with Tony. I want to know exactly what’s going on. Did he make it? If he did, will he be back to testify tomorrow? I need to go and update the Boss.” He checked his captive before he left, but this time Steve was unaware of the other man’s speculative scrutiny as he stared blindly ahead. 

Steve was a seething cauldron of emotions, barely able to think straight. His mouth was bone-dry with a fear that struck him far deeper, harder and more painfully than any of the earlier physical blows he’d suffered. There was a good possibility that his father was dead or dying. He had apparently at least technically died while he, Steve had been unable to help. Mark had been in danger many times before, but Steve had always had the comfort of placing his own strength and abilities in service to protect his father and ward off disaster. 

He simply couldn’t imagine a life without that serene yet entertaining presence sailing through it. His father was always there, behind everything, involved in everything. The idea of life without him, the vast emptiness where he’d been was unendurable. An invisible band wrapped around Steve’s chest. He tried to take a deep breath to steady himself, but the grief pressed too heavily upon him. Yet, growing vigorously behind that despair was a white-hot rage. The urge to tear apart these people responsible for his father’s pain burned increasingly bright in his veins and ate at his control, but he fed that fury because it provided a shield against the profound guilt and regret that rose up to choke his lungs and clog his throat. Desperation gradually changed to a cold determination. He had to get to his father and deal with the men who’d possibly succeeded in murdering him.

His muscles were coiled in impatience, and his knuckles fisted white, eager to strike, but he fought for restraint until only his eyes betrayed his inner turmoil to the rest of the world. He waited, biding his time, devising and discarding plans until an opening presented itself.

Fortuitously, he was seated in an excellent position to see the cards of one of the players, and he followed the game, waiting for the right combination of events to occur. Patience was rewarded and, at a pivotal moment, he announced scornfully, “Don’t fall for that, he’s got a full house.” The other two men threw down their cards relieved to have escaped financial loss, and, balked of his prey, the third leapt to his feet, rounding on Steve in fury. Steve cringed away from the attack, raising his bound arms, deliberately drawing attention to his handcuffed and helpless position.

Passively, he allowed the first kick to land, grunting in pain as it sank into already bruised ribs, but as the gunman steadied himself for a second strike, Steve whipped out his legs, the right landing against his opponent’s legs just above the feet, then he rolled his hips as simultaneously his left leg stuck just behind the knees, propelling the man violently and irrevocably off-balance and into the wall, his head impacting with a resounding crunch. The gun dropped from nerveless fingers as he crumpled bonelessly to the ground, and Steve seized it, turning and firing in one swift movement. 

His opponents were a trifle slow on the uptake, convinced of their numerical advantage and superior firepower, but as their supposedly cowed prisoner suddenly emerged armed, they dived in opposite directions with practiced fluency. Steve’s shot took one high in the chest, but the necessity of choosing one target left the other free to fire.

The rage and action-induced adrenaline coursing through Steve’s system left him almost oblivious to the deep furrow scored in the side of his neck and the warmth of the blood flooding down. His nerves had tightened like elastic, causing pins and needles to prickle his skin as he ducked for cover behind the bed while contemplating the absurdity of a shootout in a room barely 25 feet across. It was about as sensible as playing hide and seek in the same space with the two beds providing the only possible concealment. A childhood memory of hiding underneath beds propelled him to shoot out a hand to lift the counterpane, envisaging a possible shot coming from underneath, but they were typical motel beds, fastened completely on a box-like frame to the ground to prevent careless guests leaving a variety of articles.

It was tempting to vault over the beds and tackle his adversary, but he’d learnt the hard way that leaping on top of armed men was not necessarily the most prudent course of action, and he contented himself with crawling to the end of the bed. Fragments exploded around his head, but he held his fire, aware of how thin the walls were and not wanting to risk a shot unless he was sure of his target.

He risked another peek, and his reflexes proved adequate to the situation, as he pulled back just before a bullet passed through the space vacated by his head. Trading potshots over the beds was an invitation to disaster, and he decided to try negotiating, impatient to get past this last obstacle to freedom and his father. 

“You have to know that the cops are on their way,” he yelled. “Give it up before you get killed!” The only answer was another shot even closer which emphasised the stupidity of disclosing his precise location. A wave of dizziness passed through him, leaving a red haze over his vision which he attempted to blink away, thinking it an additional unfair handicap in an already unequal struggle. He fell back on his hearing, hoping that any advance towards his position would be betrayed by some sound, but then his ears picked up something else -- several pairs of feet converging on their room. It could be Hicks returning with reinforcements, but some instinct told him otherwise; there was a pattern to the movements that he recognised.

“Told you so,” he muttered sardonically. The door crashed open, accompanied by the strident cry of ‘police!’. Steve closed his eyes at the brief exchange of gunfire, knowing the end was inevitable, but hoping no officer would get hurt.

“Steve?” He recognised Cheryl’s anxious voice.

“I’m here,” he answered, surprised by the rasping, weak tone that emanated from his mouth. He struggled to his feet, retaining enough presence of mind to drop his newly acquired weapon, knowing that his appearance would alarm any excitable rookies who’d participated in the firefight.

He propped himself against the wall, hoping the nonchalant pose would disguise the fact that without its support, he would pitch straight forward on his nose, and smiled fuzzily at the blurred figure approaching.

Cheryl suffered no such visual impairment. “My God, Steve, are you alright?” She realised as the words left her mouth how truly inane they were. He looked like a wardrobe reject from a Friday 13th movie. Brown, stale blood dappled his tattered shirt while fresh crimson bathed his upper neck and chest. Once the livid bruises that liberally decorated his face and peeked out between the torn shreds of material matured, he would be a rainbow of colour, but somehow she was unsurprised by his reply of, “I’m fine,” then more urgently, “Cheryl, my Dad?”

She muttered something unladylike under her breath, having hoped that he was unaware of the recent tragic events. It would have been easier to deal with his physical injuries without the additional complication of the emotional fallout of Mark’s heart attack.

“Steve, I’m sorry, I don’t know. He was taken to Community General, that’s all I’ve heard.”

Steve nodded once, seemingly too exhausted for a more effusive reaction. Cheryl reached out a gentle hand towards his neck, recognising the wound there as the source of the more recent blood. “Steve, you’ve been shot.” She was surprised when he caught her hand unerringly in his left, reaching up and touching his neck automatically with his right. He looked at his red fingers without interest, and Cheryl’s meager medical training supplied the diagnosis of shock. However, his next words were clear and determined.

“Cheryl, I have to get to my Dad.”

She nodded supportively. “There’s an ambulance on the way.”

He shook her arm urgently. “No, I have to go now!”

She looked around aghast. “Steve, I can’t just leave the scene of a shooting.”

“Cheryl, please.” The naked entreaty in his eyes was nothing like the puppy-dog appeal he sometimes used to get his way. It held a raw need that she was helpless to resist. 

“Alright, come on.” She guided him towards the door. “Malone, Johnson, I have to get Lieutenant Sloan to the hospital.” At least, she mused, there was no arguing with that statement, and she didn’t have to explain the true reason behind the urgency.

She slipped her arm around Steve to support him on the stairs, and could feel the tremors of exhaustion that shook him at intervals, but he didn’t complain, and she was amazed by the sheer stubbornness that was the only thing keeping him on his feet. She found herself praying that the older Sloan’s tenacity would prove as great as his son’s.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Jesse gravitated moodily to the sounds of the disturbance. Blessed with a naturally ebullient personality, he rarely suffered from depression, but currently he felt like retreating to a quiet room and licking his wounds in private. In the end, it was the memory of how Mark typically coped with stress that sent him out in search of distraction.

The sounds of disorder intensified, the nurses boiling around like worker ants in a frenzy over a choice tidbit, and Jesse hastened his steps. Violence was unfortunately not a rare occurrence in the ER; from people injured under the influence of a veritable pharmacy of drugs, to gang members trading potshots on a variety of territorial imperatives, they all too frequently attempted to help people who didn’t want to submit passively to the rules laid down for their treatment.

He insinuated himself into the centre of the huddle, anticipating the toughest patient and could only stare slack-jawed in amazement at the sight of his best friend. In an instant that seemed to last an eternity, his emotions ran the gamut from stunned disbelief, to joyous relief to dismayed horror at his appearance.

“Steve!” he exclaimed, at last finding his voice.

Steve looked up and latched onto him like a starving man grasping a proffered meal. His eyes were blue shards of anxiety as he stood up, shedding nurses like a lion shaking off cubs. “Jess, where’s Dad? Is he okay?”

Before Jesse had a chance to respond, the most officious of the nurses jumped back into the fray. “Dr. Travis, this man is clearly injured but he is refusing treatment.”

With an authority that might have seemed strange for a man of his size and youth, Jesse dismissed her and all the hospital personnel. “I’ll deal with this, thank you.”

He pulled Steve into a nearby treatment room, not sure how much his friend knew and wanting to bring him up to date in private. The second the door closed behind them, Steve grabbed Jesse’s arm in shaking hands. His face was set like steel -- rusted steel, with shockingly pale streaks showing through the dried blood. “For God’s sake just tell me. Is he alive?”

Suddenly plumbing the depths of his friend’s fear, Jesse hastened to reassure him. “Yes, he’s alive and resting...Whoa, sit down here.” As if the good news had snipped the last string holding him upright, Steve’s knees had buckled and Jesse hustled him over to a chair before he hit the floor. Steve buried his face in his hands, fighting for control, the abrupt downward collapse of his body diametrically opposed to the tremendous lightening of his spirit. The relief loosened the incredible constriction in his chest, the weight of his worst fear blown away. He took a deep breath. “I need to see him, Jess.”

“I don’t think...”

“Jesse, please!”

“Steve, just listen to me for a moment,” Jesse insisted. “You look like something the cat had more sense than to drag in. If Mark sees you looking like that, he’ll have a ...” He suddenly realised that he was in the middle of an unfortunate choice of metaphor and hastily changed mid-sentence, “...it’ll be a nasty shock. Let me just dress your neck and your wrists and change your shirt so you’re not actively dripping blood anywhere, then we’ll go and see him, I promise.”

Steve assented reluctantly, acknowledging the common sense in the young doctor’s words, but knowing that it would be impossible for him to relax until he’d seen his father and allowed his physical senses to banish the nightmare he’d been living. He shifted restlessly while Jesse worked, more from the delay than from the pain.

“They said that he had a heart attack in the courtroom,” he announced suddenly. “That he actually...that his heart actually stopped.”

Jesse’s hands stilled at the terrible reminder, one that he would rank near the top of his list of ‘days I’d like to expunge from my memory.’ “Yeah,” he admitted reluctantly, “that’s essentially what happened. I know it sounds bad, but I started CPR immediately and managed to resuscitate him within...”

“You were there? You saved his life?” Steve interrupted. “Thank you. I owe you one.” The words were sparse, but his face was alight with gratitude and the deep sincerity in his voice made Jesse wince with guilt. He didn’t think that Steve would be expressing the same sentiments when he heard the whole story. He helped Steve remove his shirt, just succeeding in biting back a gasp at the sight of the cruel contusions that almost covered Steve’s entire torso.

“I have to get you to x-ray,” he announced curtly. He didn’t intend the anger that suddenly burned hotly inside to flare out of control and singe his friend, but luckily Steve seemed oblivious to his tone.

“Later,” was his only response and Jesse judged the monosyllabic reply to be an indication of Steve’s state of utter exhaustion. Slight tremors shook his frame almost continuously, yet Jesse believed his friend would proceed on sheer strength of will even when his physical reserves were utterly depleted. He wouldn’t rest until he’d seen his father, and the best thing Jesse could do was to expedite that, ignoring the medical training that told him to treat and medicate.

The only item he had with which to replace the stained and tattered shirt was a hospital gown, but at least it concealed the worst of the damage. He then fetched a wheelchair. Steve regarded it with mild disfavor but made no demur, and the journey up to the cardiac wing commenced in silence. Steve was too weary to think, never mind talk, and Jesse was too absorbed in his own thoughts to make the effort. 

However, as they stopped outside a private room and Jesse reached to open the door, Steve intercepted his hand. “Let’s not worry him more than we have to, huh?” He placed his hands on the armrests of the chair and pushed himself upright, steadying himself against the door frame. Jesse was about to intersperse a sarcastic comment about the relative merits of the wheelchair versus falling flat on his face when he witnessed a remarkable transformation. Although clearly running on fumes, Steve dredged up at least the appearance of animation, straightening up and throwing back his shoulders, moving with an ease that belied the true weariness he was experiencing.

However, the most accomplished acting in the world couldn’t alter his dire pallor and the bruising which suggested he’d gone several rounds with a boxing team...and lost. He opened the door gently, not wanting to disturb Mark if he was resting quietly. Amanda was sitting by the bed, but Steve’s eyes gravitated exclusively to his father. Mark’s face was drawn and pale, the skin on his forehead pulled into unaccustomed deep furrows, a visual record inscribed in flesh of the stress he’d suffered in the last 24 hours.

Amanda’s gasp alerted Mark to the intrusion, and he turned in the direction of the door. If Steve had ever doubted the depths of his father’s feelings for him, he would have revised his opinion at that moment. In that one unguarded moment, Mark’s expression reflected a relief so profound as to be painful and then blazed into a smile full of love that radically reversed the previous grey exhaustion of his face. Steve made it over to the bed on autopilot, then Amanda nudged him into her chair, dropping a kiss onto an unmarked spot on his forehead to express her own sense of relief.

Mark reached out, gripping his son’s hand firmly. It was a simple touch, but the vulnerability and trust it communicated made Steve’s throat tighten. For long minutes neither spoke; words had long ago become a secondary mode of communication between them, but eventually Mark’s curiosity prompted a question.

“What happened?” He gestured towards Steve’s neck.

“It’s just a scratch.” He aborted a shrug in the middle, the simple motion pulling painfully at a myriad of bruised and torn muscles.

Mark knew from the size and type of bandage that this was a typical understatement to try to deflect his concern. His knowledge of anatomy also informed him that, knife or gun, the weapon had been scant fractions of an inch away from his son’s carotid artery, and that minute measurement between life and death sent a thrill of fear up his spine. He masked this new surge of concern under a curmudgeonly scowl.

“You look terrible, half dead on your feet.”

Steve did his best to allay his worry. “I’m fine, Dad, honestly. Just a few bumps and scratches.”

“Jesse?” Mark summoned the young doctor for a more objective opinion. 

“Dented, but salvageable,” Jesse confirmed dryly.

“You need to be worrying about yourself, Dad, not me. The bruises will be gone in a week, but a heart attack...that’s serious.” He hated the thought of that infirmity. Despite his innate protectiveness of his father, there had always been an indestructible quality about Mark.

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” Mark said hastily, effectively dismissing the subject. Yet there was something in his words that, despite his exhaustion, tickled Steve’s detective instincts. He frowned, studying his father. There was an earnest innocence in his expression, but Steve had learnt to read beyond what was obvious and sensed an odd evasion. He turned to Jesse, knowing that young man was as transparent as Mark was opaque. He found the last thing he’d ever expected to see there -- anger.

He was quite aware of Jesse’s strong feelings of awe and affection for Mark, and welcomed him into their adopted extended family, but now his father had had a heart attack and Jesse reaction was wrath. It made no sense. The unconnected facts floated in his mind, rotating lazily around each other until, reaching the correct configuration, they pulled together with a resounding explosion, and he turned back to Mark with horrified understanding.

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t really do anything; it was an accident,” Mark defended himself lamely. 

“Your heart attack was an accident?” Steve questioned hotly.

Mark considered prevarication and dissembling, the verbal equivalent to the sleight of hand he loved so much, but the dangerous glint in his son’s eye stopped any protestations of innocence. 

“Let me explain.” He coughed, trying to find words that would mellow the upcoming lecture he could foresee in the near future. A quick glance showed him that no help would be forthcoming from Amanda or Jesse. Both stood with arms crossed and amazingly identical expression of disapproval on their faces.

He suppressed a sigh and ventured on bravely. “I had to play for time, you see. Perjury would merely postpone the inevitable. Once the verdict was in, they’d have no more use for you.” His jaw tightened at the memory of that agonising predicament, and he continued on more strongly. “It would be a near impossibility to find you in the time we had available; they could be holding you anywhere. It was essential to postpone the trial in such a way as to ensure your safety and maybe even force them into the open. Anything too blatant would have the same effect as a guilty verdict and would have cost you your life.”

“So you thought you’d do something subtle like kill yourself in the middle of the courtroom?” Steve remained unimpressed, his tone as dry as the Atacama desert, but behind that was a matching heat which told Mark his son was poised on the edge of an explosion.

Mark had tried contrition, but it was hard to pull off when he felt no regret. His son was alive, here and in front of him, and in his mind that was all the justification his actions needed. So now he matched Steve’s dryness, upping the stakes with dignified offense. “Actually, no, that wasn’t part of the plan. If I’d died, then again they would have no reason to keep you alive, so that would defeat the purpose.”

Steve was somewhat mollified by this disclosure. “So what was the plan?”

Mark was tempted to shift some of the culpability for the scheme in Jesse’s direction, but in fairness, that young man had provided the inspiration in all innocence. “The plan was to fake a heart attack. Well, maybe fake is the wrong word, simulate is better. It had to be totally convincing, an unavoidable but not catastrophic snag in their plans that wouldn’t warrant retribution. I would still be a potential witness, so they’d have to keep you around for leverage. Meanwhile, we’d have won the time we so badly needed, giving Cheryl the chance to locate you. So, did it work? Did she find you?”

It all sounded eminently sensible, and Steve found himself thawing. When Mark ended with a question and looked at him with bright expectation, he was within a hair’s breath of answering. But his father was a past master at misdirection, and ultimately Steve refused to take the bait. 

“We’ll talk about that later,” he directed sternly, feeling like a heel as Mark’s face fell, but sticking to his guns anyway. “Are you telling me that you didn’t have a heart attack after all, that you just pretended?”

“Well...no. It had to look good. I couldn’t just grab my chest, say ‘arrrrghh’ and lie down,” Mark replied testily.

“So...” Steve prompted impatiently.

“The symptoms at least had to be authentic and impressive, and we had little time to procure drugs. It was either swallow some fertilizer from the garden and give myself organophosphate poisoning...”

“What?”

“But I didn’t do that,” Mark stated virtuously. “The only other thing immediately available was potassium.”

“Didn’t you tell me an overdose of potassium was what killed Lilian Oliver in the first place?”

“Well, that’s sort of where I got the idea, but,” he continued hurriedly, “you have to understand. She had congestive heart failure, and there were drug interactions at work too. I was aiming at a nice dose of hyperkalemia with some cardiac arrhythmia. Besides, Jesse was there and he had some the calcium ready to inject into the bloodstream to treat the cardiac toxicity and some sodium bicarbonate...”

“So what went wrong?” Steve interrupted, recognising diversion trick number twenty-seven -- inundate them with excessive medical terminology.

“Wrong? Well it didn’t really go wrong, it went...too right.” Reading the storm warning on his son’s face, Mark tried to discharge the thunder harmlessly. “We...I calculated the dose that would cause arrhythmia with some nice dramatic sweating and pallor. It was vital that it was convincing so I suppose I erred on the side of...” He broke off with a wince, realising his inopportune choice of words, but Steve picked up where he left off.

“Caution, is that what you were going to say? Caution.” Steve’s voice rose with each word, and Mark noticed with interest that his original pallor had been replaced by a more healthy looking flush of anger. “You wouldn’t know caution if it walked up and introduced itself then whacked you on the head. How have you convinced everybody that you’re a genius? I’ve met lemmings with better survival instincts.”

He rounded on Jesse, ready to include him in this castigation, but he was struck by the very real misery on the young man’s face and he changed his mind. How many times had his father persuaded him to do something against his better judgment, from harbouring a fugitive to setting himself up as bait for a serial killer? For all his amiability, when he believed he was in the right, Mark strongly resembled a bulldozer, cheerfully rolling over opposition.

He turned back to his father. “Have you apologised to Jesse?” he demanded.

He didn’t often succeed in surprising Mark, but whatever his father expected, it wasn’t that. The older doctor glanced involuntarily at Jesse, who was exhibiting his own astonishment, but what he saw gave him pause and, for the first time, a certain shame in his own actions. He had been so absorbed in saving his son, he’d given no thought to the impact of his activities on others. 

He flashed back to the horrendous experience of resuscitating his own son, the agony of hope and visceral fear of failure battened down in the frenzied, preprogrammed whirlwind of motion to be released later in a devastating explosion of overloaded emotions, in which relief was impossible to distinguish from pain. He would never have wished to inflict even a portion of that ordeal on anyone else.

“I am so sorry, Jesse,” he exclaimed sincerely. “I didn’t think...it must have been...well, I’m truly sorry.”

Jesse still looked more shellshocked at not being on the receiving end of Steve’s ire than gratified, and waved a limp but magnanimous hand. “S’okay. I suppose it’s worked out for the best.”

He ignored Steve’s mutter of, “Don’t let him off that easily,” and, feeling slightly embarrassed to be the recipient of Mark’s apologies, edged towards the door, Amanda in tow.

“Why don’t we leave the two of you to sort this out.” He shook a cautionary finger at Steve. “You’ve got fifteen minutes, then I’ll be back.”

Steve watched them leave and didn’t immediately turn back, needing a short reprieve. The brief surge of energy brought on by anger had dissipated, and he felt utterly exhausted and depressed by the notion that his father held his own life in such little regard.

“Steve?” He felt Mark gently touch his arm, then give a sharp inhalation. Following his father’s gaze, he saw blood had oozed through the bandages around his wrist. He shook the gown’s sleeves down lower, but they failed to cover the sight adequately. Seeing how upset Mark looked, Steve was unable to summon any more outrage, but he was equally unable to drop the subject.

“Seriously, Dad, your concept of survival is remarkably flawed.” It was said with affectionate humour and Mark responded in kind.

“And this from a cop who risks his life for strangers every day.”

“It’s not the same,” Steve argued. An elevated eyebrow invited him to explain the difference, but his brain was too tired to find the words for a concept he understood instinctively. On the streets, he was armed and trained and although anything could happen, he still held an element of control over his own fate. The cold-blooded courage of surrendering to the vicissitudes of chemical interactions was beyond his comprehension.

Although he didn’t answer, Mark seemed to have understood his thought processes. “Weapons are your speciality, drugs are mine.”

Steve could see that he had failed entirely to make his point so he attempted to drag together a small fraction of his original wrath. “Do you have any idea what it was like to hear that you’d had a massive heart attack? I just had to sit there, not knowing if you were dead or alive, utterly...”

Steve broke off in surrender as his father just regarded him steadily, his eyes saying that yes, he knew exactly what that felt like, that it was, in fact, why he’d taken the actions he had. Steve stifled the impulse to once again insist childishly, ‘It’s not the same,’ in favour of the more adult, “Well, just don’t do it again.” 

“I certainly hope I never have to. After all,” Mark continued thoughtfully, “it would almost certainly lose its impact the second time. I’ll tell you what, I’ll promise if you promise never to get kidnapped again.”

Great, no pressure there. Steve abandoned the effort. Matching wits with his father was a challenging task at the best of times, and at present, his brain cells had parted company with his cranium and gone AWOL, and he couldn’t scrape together enough acumen to rationalise his way out of a paper bag. The room dipped and swung, and he swayed with it, obeying its unspoken command to join the dance.

“Steve?” Mark’s anxious voice broke into his reverie. “I’m going to call Jesse; you should be in bed.”

“Just a few more minutes, Dad.” Steve’s mouth twitched as the familiar childhood plea slipped easily from his lips and, from the answering smile on his father’s face, it was obvious that Mark was experiencing the same nostalgia. Steve didn’t want to explain that after the fears of the last few hours, he needed the reassuringly vibrant presence of his father more than he needed rest. Maybe the converse was true for Mark, since he made no effort to carry through on his threat.

“So how did you find me?” Mark wasn’t the only one who could use distraction for his own ends.

“We were lucky.” Mark looked sombre as he reflected on the proximity of tragedy and the narrow margin by which it had been averted. “When I...woke up in the hospital, I handed my cell phone to Cheryl and she was able to trace the last call back to the motel.”

Steve stared, remembering Hicks reaching back for the phone. “That seems uncommonly stupid, even for criminals,” he commented.

“I don’t think it was stupid so much as overconfident. They were watching me all the time so they knew I couldn’t trace the call after it was made. Then, once I’d testified, they would kill you and leave, and the motel room would have no connection to them. I think they also intended to kill me as I left the courtroom. No loose ends either way.”

A cold chill trickled down Steve’s spine. His one consolation while bound, bruised and staring death in the face cross-eyed had been that his father was safe and, since the Mob had taken some pains to keep him that way, it hadn’t occurred to him in all the commotion that they’d intended it to be a very temporary condition.

“So,” he figured out slowly. “By leaving the courtroom in an ambulance, surrounded by medical technicians, you were also safeguarding your own life.”

From the jolt of surprise on Mark’s face, it was clear that this benefit hadn’t previously occurred to him, but he rallied quickly. “Well, as I mentioned before, it was an excellent plan, covering all the bases.”

Steve wasn’t ready to concede that much, but privately he had to admit that he couldn’t think of another strategy that would have left them both alive. His father’s unconventional thinking had almost certainly saved them both. Grudgingly, he confessed, “It did have the benefit of making things easier my end. Hicks went off to discuss the situation with his boss, and he sent one of the men who’d been in the room to check out the situation here, which meant there were only three men left, a rather more manageable number. I’d managed to take two of them out before Cheryl showed up with the cavalry. That almost certainly saved us from what could have been a lengthy hostage situation.”

Mark was torn between gratification, awed amazement that his son, injured and bound, had still managed to disable two of his captors, and horror at the belated realisation that success in locating his son could easily have not translated into saving him. 

A comfortable silence fell for a moment. As Steve began to relax under his father’s soothing presence, his body started to hijack him into lethargy. He drifted away, but started as Mark spoke again.

“We really owe a lot to Cheryl. She agreed to help look for you unofficially, without bringing in reinforcements or informing the Captain until it wouldn’t endanger you further. Where is she, by the way?”

“She had to go back to the motel, so after abandoning me to the tender mercies...”

Steve glanced casually towards the door as he was speaking. It wasn’t even in his peripheral vision, so he wasn’t sure what instinct alerted him to its surreptitious opening. He was expecting to see Jesse arriving to implement his earlier threat, and start the poking and prodding that he’d promised, but the face that peered round bore no resemblance to the young doctor’s. It was dark, grizzled with stubble and grimed in such a way that said that hygiene was not a particularly high priority to its owner. It also contained a nose that had clearly been broken so many times as to have lost the sense of direction in which it was supposed to sprout.

Recognition was instant on both sides. Tony gaped unattractively at the man he’d recently left, tied and beaten in a motel room, closely guarded by well-armed comrades. His laborious thought processes struggled to make sense of this unexpected apparition, running through and rejecting the possibility of twins and of Hicks releasing the cop voluntarily. Unable to resolve the matter to his satisfaction, he fell back on what experience had taught him to be the best way to dispose of inexplicable problems and his hand dropped to his gun.

For Steve, the only puzzle was why he hadn’t expected the gunman to arrive, and the answer to that was simple enough. He’d assumed that Tony would have already finished at the hospital and would be on his way back to the motel room, but now he realised that the two mobsters had probably found it difficult to locate Mark, since hospital policy would have limited the information released. He was also in no doubt as to what course of action to undertake. A jolt of adrenaline crackled down his spine and he jumped to his feet, grabbing the first object that came to hand, which happened to be the lid of Mark’s rejected lunch, hurling it violently at the gunman and following it closely with the chair he’d just evacuated, and then with himself in hot pursuit.

He slammed a right fist into Tony’s face before the mobster had completed drawing his weapon, and the blow sending him reeling back into the corridor. Distantly, Steve heard his father shout his name and an alarm go off. The awareness that he was all that stood between Mark and a bullet stoked a blazing, fear-based fury that imbued him with a strength he wouldn’t have believed possible mere seconds before. However, even in this rage he didn’t allow himself to compound what he saw as his error in forgetting Hick’s command to his men to check the hospital. There had been two men dispatched on the errand.

The second man had barely escaped being bowled over by his friend’s abrupt expulsion from the room, but Steve remedied that lapse with a swift elbow in his face followed by an uppercut. It wouldn’t put him down for long, but Steve didn’t have the luxury of time to finish the job; Tony had recovered from his impact with the wall and was already drawing his weapon. Steve leapt on him as the gun discharged. As they struggled for possession of the automatic, there were screams from down the corridor and some shouts for security, but they sounded far away and oddly muffled. The air had taken on a peculiar thick syrupy quality that was hard to inhale and his breath was coming in harsh, gasping pants.

The brief burst of energy was draining faster than bath water through a gaping plug hole, and he was operating on pure nerves, employing elbows, knees and head in the battle since his hands were hanging grimly onto the gun. Losing was unacceptable, but winning was looking unobtainable and at this point he would settle for a stalemate. The punishment he was receiving was severe on an already battered body, and a sharp blow to the ribs weakened his grip, allowing Tony to gain the superior position for the first time. His snarling face filled Steve’s vision but he refused to relinquish his hold. Then suddenly Tony was gone, and all resistance had vanished.

With an effort, he shifted his focus and his father’s face swam into view, staring down at him anxiously and clutching the broken legs of a chair. Understanding dawned. “Way to go, Dad,” he croaked. “Not that I didn’t have everything under control.”

“Sure you did,” Mark soothed, helping Steve to sit against the wall. “Um...you can let go of the gun now.”

No, he couldn’t. Steve looked across the hall at the second gunman who was only now struggling to consciousness in the arms of security. Tony was crumpled near him on the floor, the shattered remains of the chair decorating his body. Steve eased the gun out of the man’s limp hands, feeling better for that possession.

In a move that Steve somehow missed, his father was suddenly kneeling beside him, easing aside the hospital gown. “I need to check this out.”

“It’s okay, Dad, just a few more bruises to add to the collection.” 

“And a few more holes,” Mark added grimly.

“What?” Yet, even as he spoke, the last of the adrenaline that had surged so effectively and overwhelmingly through his system evaporated, and the pain it had displaced suddenly came roaring back with supplemental interest for the additional battering he’d just endured. A hiss of pain escaped from his clenched lips.

Mark’s hands stilled for a moment. “You’re going to be fine,” he informed his son gruffly. “Went in and out through your side here, right through this love handle, so it didn’t touch anything vital.”

“Don’ have love handles.” Steve’s voice was slurred with exhaustion.

“Well, it still went through your side. What did you think you were doing? They both had guns and you were unarmed!” The exasperation in Mark’s voice couldn’t mask his concern.

“Shoulda just sat there and let ‘em shoot us both? ‘Sides, I was armed. I had a dad with a chair.”

“A weapon of choice for every beleaguered cop,” Mark commented dryly. “When are you going to learn to duck?” He was holding a pad against the wound to stem the flow of blood, and it was almost soaked through so he pressed more firmly. However, there was a slight twinkle in his eye as he continued. “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

Steve returned the grin weakly, marveling at his father’s ability to drive him crazy and keep him sane all at the same time. He let his head fall back against the wall, fatigue deadening the worst of the pain, distancing him from his own reactions to the recent crisis, yet his overtaxed mind wandered off to contemplate the realisation that had come to him as he leapt for the gunman, a comforting epiphany that finally allowed him to fully relax. He’d needed the change of perspective to understand that his actions had been no different from his father’s in intent. He’d have done anything in that minute to keep the gunmen away from his father, and Mark’s desperate actions in the courtroom were a reflection of his own need to protect. It had nothing to do with Mark holding his own life cheaply, but everything to do with the value he placed on his son’s. Steve didn’t fight the surge of warmth around his heart the thought provoked.

Suddenly he was experiencing a sensation of falling, tumbling down as if gravity itself had ceased to have meaning, and he reached out for something to stall his descent. “Dad?” 

He felt his hand grasped firmly and his father’s reassuring voice offering a further anchor. “You’re going to be fine, son. We’ll have you patched up in no time. Just relax.”

Steve would have liked to have acknowledged the encouragement, but his eyelids refused to stay open, and he felt darkness swirl over him and drag him into its warm embrace. 

Mark caught him as he slid sideways, cushioning his fall and easing him into a comfortable position against him, protectively shielded from the rest of the world. His senses told him that his son was alive and would recover, but it always proved harder to convince his subconscious, and he scanned anxiously for Jesse through the curious crowd of onlookers.

The young doctor soon appeared, slipping lithely between packed bodies. He dropped to his knees beside Steve, shooting Mark a quick assessing glance, then started a brief evaluation of his most recidivistic patient, muttering something about people who couldn’t stay out of trouble for ten minutes.

Mark followed his movements nervously until Jesse sat back on his heels with a nod of satisfaction. “I know he looks a mess, Mark, but his injuries are mostly superficial.” 

His diagnosis matched Mark’s, but still the older doctor was relieved to hear it confirmed from a more objective source. He nodded and reluctantly shifted his hands, allowing Jesse to tape down the gauze in preparation to moving Steve onto the gurney.

“Let me patch him up and check him out with x-rays, and we’ll be back in no time,” he reassured the anxious father. “I’m presuming you’d enjoy a new roommate, and it’s probably the only way I’ll keep you in your room recuperating as you should be...right now,” he hinted strongly.

Mark smiled slightly in acknowledgement, trying to conceal how truly loath he was to let Steve out of his sight even momentarily. “Well, as long as he doesn’t snore,” he lied unconvincingly. He watched tensely as Steve’s limp body was carefully lifted onto the gurney, stepping forward stiffly to tuck one hanging arm into a more comfortable position. He rested his hand lightly on his son’s forehead, smoothing the hair away from an ugly gash above his eyebrow, then nodded to Jesse to proceed. He was standing forlornly, staring after the gurney, too weary to determine his next move when Amanda materialised beside him.

“Mark, let’s get you cleaned up and back to bed. You’ve been through a lot and need your rest.”

Mark mustered a slight smile which faded quickly as he gazed at hands sticky with his son’s blood. Docily, he allowed Amanda to help him get clean, change stained clothes, and get back into bed. Her calm tones helped fill the empty silence while he waited for Steve’s return. 

The interval appeared more prolonged than it actually was, and before too long, Steve was being transferred to the other bed. As the nurses made their still unconscious patient comfortable, Jesse updated Mark on his son’s condition. The bullet wound had done no internal damage and would heal quickly if Steve kept activity to a minimum. As suspected, there were several cracked ribs and the accumulation of minor injuries was daunting, but he should recuperate quickly.

Jesse and Amanda left with warnings that both invalids needed to take it easy and get some rest, and Mark nodded obediently, but as soon as their footsteps had faded, he pushed his blankets aside and made his way across the room. 

He eased himself into a chair at Steve’s bedside, his eyes cataloging the evidence of all the recent assaults upon his son’s body. Steve still looked deathly pale in the few places where his natural colour could be spotted beneath the spreading purple mosaic of bruises, and even sleep didn’t erase the frown of pain that had inscribed itself permanently into his skin. Mark reached out tentatively and smoothed his fingertips across his son’s forehead, wishing he could eradicate the memories of the events that had caused the lines. Steve was too warm to the touch, evidence that some opportunistic infection had taken hold, but Mark wasn’t too worried about that, knowing that antibiotics as well as fluids to replace what was lost were dripping into his son’s bloodstream through the IV attached to his arm.

There was a bandage stretched partway across his discoloured abdomen, and electrodes attached to his chest monitoring vital signs which were reassuringly strong. In the middle of this perusal, Steve’s hand twitched suddenly and Mark covered it with his own, surprised when he saw his son’s eyes open and fix somewhat blearily on his face. "How you feeling?" he asked, unconsciously patting the hand he held in his own. “You’re going to be fine. Try to rest."

Steve’s first attempt at speech resulted only in a hoarse croak, and he swallowed dryly. Mark held a glass of water with a straw to his mouth, letting him take a few sips and his second effort was more successful. “Didn’t we just do this?” he rasped, gesturing vaguely at their relative positions.

“Well, I was the one lying down and you were the one remonstrating with me over my lack of caution, but essentially, yes.”

“Like father, like son, huh?” A faint smile tilted Steve’s lips. “I don’t suppose we could just skip the lecture part and move straight to the part where you admit I didn’t really have a lot of choice?”

Mark was too grateful to have his son back and relatively whole to have any interest in berating him for past indiscretions. He also recognised the oblique apology in his son’s words, the covert admission that Mark’s options had been extremely limited, and that in this situation the ends could be said to justify the means. He smiled affectionately. “We’re certainly a pair,” he mused. 

“Not a pair, a team.” The words were just a murmur and Steve’s eyes drifted closed again.

Mark smiled involuntarily, his heart full. He stayed in the chair until he judged that Steve had fallen deeply asleep, then reluctantly stood up to return to his bed. He started violently as Steve’s hand suddenly grabbed his. 

“Where?” Steve looked disoriented and was clearly distressed about something, and the monosyllabic question at first led Mark to think his son was unsure of his own location, but his defensive posture and probing, if confused, survey of the room indicated that he was more concerned with his father’s intended destination even in a semi-conscious state.

“I’m staying right here,” Mark clarified soothingly. “We’re roommates for the duration. Just relax, it’s all over now.” Recalling some of the information passed on by Amanda, he related the latest developments. “Cheryl is right now rounding up the last of the gang who kidnapped you. We’re safe, so lie down and go back to sleep.”

He wasn’t sure that Steve had understood, but eventually he nodded slightly and lay back, although half-closed eyes tracked Mark’s movements until the older man climbed back in his own bed. As his offspring slid back into sleep, Mark settled himself as comfortably as was possible with ribs aching from the battering they’d received during CPR, but he wasn’t yet ready to nap. 

It had been far too close yet again, and he needed to stay awake in the superstitious belief that his alert presence would eliminate, or at least divert, the specter of imminent death that had hovered so persistently over his son. For now, he could savor the knowledge that everything important in his life was safe. His vision centered on the place where his son’s chest rose and fell, and he smiled.

 

****************


End file.
